


Rising Son

by Bunney



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:25:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunney/pseuds/Bunney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve and Lucius has a surprise for Draco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rising Son

“I have a surprise for you tonight, Draco.”

Draco looked up from his braised veal and met his father’s eyes over the flickering candelabra. Lucius gave him a mild look of anticipation that spoke volumes. To his left, Narcissa gripped her wineglass with white-knuckled fingers and avoided her son’s questioning eyes.

“A surprise, Father? What kind of surprise?” Draco asked impatiently. He wasn’t a man given to an appreciation of surprises.

“A very special one. It’s Christmas Eve, son. I want to make it one you’ll remember for the rest of your life,” Lucius said, as he took a delicate sip of his Riesling. “You’ll find what you need in your room; dress warmly, for it’s quite cold out tonight.”

Lucius turned to a visibly-shaken Narcissa, his expression cautioning her to silence. Draco, seeing that Lucius was not going to be more forthcoming, returned to his dinner, only to find his appetite had fled, replaced by a knot of anxiety in his gut.

*****

Forced to sit with his parents in the conservatory while they shared an _aperitif_ , Draco fidgeted nervously, bouncing up off the loveseat to stalk to the frosted windows and back again, until Lucius gave him leave to return to his room and await him.

Waiting until he’d left the conservatory behind before breaking into a run that would’ve had Narcissa firmly scolding him, Draco hurried to his bedroom and flung open the double doors.

For a brief moment, he thought the puddle of black atop the silver bedding was an overturned bottle of ink. But as he drew slowly closer, he could see that it was a plain black cloak. He reached out and lifted the woolen garment in one hand, puzzled by its presence, but underneath it lay a white mask, smooth and featureless save for two slits for eyes, and that alone answered all his questions.

Unaware that he was holding his breath, Draco touched it reverently, his fingers slipping over the rigid face. It was cold to the touch and he could feel a slither of magic from it lifting the hairs on his arms.

“I’ve waited a very long time for this moment, Draco.”

Whirling around, the robe clutched in one hand, the mask in the other, Draco faced his father. “I’m to be given the Mark tonight?”

Lucius strolled into the room, shutting the doors behind him. “That depends.”

“On?”

“You. And how well you perform tonight.” Lucius seated himself on the edge of the bed, smoothing one hand along the embroidered edge of his robes.

A nearly unbearable excitement gripped Draco. “What do I have to do?”

Lucius smiled unpleasantly. “In time, son. In due time. Now, do as I say and dress warmly and comfortably; we may have to move quickly.”

Pride stiffening his spine, Draco nodded quickly. “Of course, Father. Anything you say. And I promise you, I won’t let you down.”

Lucius stood and placed one hand on Draco’s shoulder. “See that you don’t. Our Lord is...unforgiving.” With a gentle squeeze, the elder wizard left Draco, quietly closing the door behind him and leaving his son to stare at the garment in his hands with a hungry smile.

*****

When Draco rejoined his father in Lucius’s office, Narcissa took one look at him, at the voluminous black folds of the cloak, the ivory mask in one hand, and turned away, tears glittering in her eyes.

“Lucius, he’s too young...” she started, her fingers twining together in agitation. Lucius gave her a quelling look and she fell silent, turning to face the fireplace.

Draco paid her little mind. His father had finally shown an interest in him, finally placed his trust on his shoulders and Draco would not be distracted by his mother’s foolish tears. A woman’s emotion was weakening and Draco needed his wits about him. Ignoring her imploring gaze, he looked to his father for guidance. “I’m ready.”

“Indeed you are. Draco, if this night is a success, if you prove your worth to not only myself, but my associates, then this night will see you honored by our Lord.” Draco grinned in response.

“I promise you, Father, your word is my command.”

Lucius’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “I couldn’t have asked for a better heir. Ahh, the clock strikes midnight...it is time. Narcissa, no need to wait up for us; it will be morning before we return.” He crossed over to her, dropping a perfunctory kiss on her damp cheek. “Be of good cheer, wife. Our son becomes a man tonight.”

The last thing Draco saw of his mother before he disapparated from the office were her misery-filled eyes.

*****

An hour later, standing with his father and several of the Death Eater elite, Draco donned the black leather gloves Lucius handed him, then checked to make sure his wand was secure. He looked up and into the mad eyes of his maternal aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange. She glided forward, her tall, spare form swathed head-to-toe in unrelieved black. The ivory mask hung from its thin cord around her neck. She smiled at him, catching her lip between sharp teeth.

“Little boy’s growing up, eh?” She reached out and touched his blond hair, rubbing the silky strands between thumb and forefinger. Draco steeled himself to not flinch away from the woman, but he was pinned in place by the intensity of her glittering gaze. 

“I’m not a little boy,” he said finally, breaking eye contact with her. Bellatrix laughed and turned to the assembled men. 

“Did you hear? ‘ _I’m not a little boy_ ’, he says!” She howled with laughter until her husband, Rodolphus, growled a terse order to shut up. She gave Draco a lusty look. “Oh, you will, little Draco. You’ll become a man tonight.”

Lucius gave his sister-in-law a withering glare as he joined his rattled son. He placed his hand on Draco’s shoulder and the younger man drew strength from it. “Don’t mind her, son, she’s only having a go at you. Are you frightened?” His cultured voice dipped at the last sentence, so that it was for Draco’s ears alone.

Draco nodded, jamming his fingers together, to fully seat the snug gloves onto his hand. “I’ll make you proud, Father. I’m ready for this honor.”

Lucius gave him an indefinable look, one that left Draco with an uneasiness for the events to come. Turning back to the men and Bellatrix, Lucius snapped his fingers once. As one, they donned their hoods and masks, Draco following suit. 

Walking to the center of their loose circle, Lucius reached into his pocket and withdrew a battered tin. He set it on the ground and they crouched around it, each extending a hand to touch the innocuous item.

Within seconds of laying his finger upon the tin, Draco felt the familiar pull of a portkey behind his navel and he closed his eyes for the journey.

*****

The neighborhood was as bland and ordinary as any Draco had ever seen. The houses were nice, even grand by Muggle standards, the lawns large and well-kept behind their fences and hedgerows. The only lights burning were from the streetlamps lining the avenue and the multicolored strands of Christmas lights strung along the eaves and railings of the houses.

On silent feet, Lucius led Draco and the Death Eaters towards one house, set at the end of a cul-de-sac. Brazenly, he took them right up to the front door, which was conveniently hidden from the street by a large rose-draped arbor. The scent of the blooms was sweet and cloying and Draco prayed that the fragrance wouldn’t trigger a sneeze.

With a whispered incantation and a wave of his wand, Lucius revealed the faint, bluish glow of protection wards guarding the house. Draco leaned closer to the man standing beside him. “Is this a wizarding home?” He had assumed that the attack would be upon Muggles.

Bellatrix reached over and grabbed his arm, digging her sharp fingernails into his flesh. “Shut up, you stupid child! We mustn’t be discovered!” she hissed. Draco wrenched away and Lucius turned to glare at them, his eyes brutally cold behind the mask.

“Be silent, the both of you! Not another word, son, or I’ll send you home.”

Draco closed his mouth with a snap, aware only of Bellatrix’s soft laughter.

It only took Lucius a few moments more to break the wards and gain entrance into the house. They filed in, wraith-like, until they filled the large, well-appointed foyer. _Whomever lived here_ , thought Draco, _they weren’t poor._

They fanned out, the twelve of them, Draco staying close behind his father. Within moments, it was determined that the lower floor was empty. All who lived here were abed.

“Stay here,” Lucius whispered to Draco, motioning him into the parlor. Draco nodded and peered around the gloom. It was tastefully decorated; two long divans faced each other beside a large, tiled hearth. A gaily decorated Christmas tree stood before the window, piled high with presents. A grand piano dominated one corner of the room; curious, Draco moved closer to look at the photographs clustered atop the instrument.

They were all of one girl, at various ages ranging from infant to pretty teenager. One showed him a curly-haired toddler, blowing out three candles on a birthday cake. He looked at the next one. 

A gawky, long-limbed child, swinging from the hands of a dark-haired man.

A bushy-haired girl grinning toothily at the camera, already dressed in her Hogwarts robes.

A poised, beautiful young woman his own age, the sun shining on her hair, one strap of her sundress slipping from her tanned shoulder.

Draco felt the room around him spin and sweat beaded along his upper lip.

Upstairs, a woman screamed.

The room flared with light as two of the Death Eaters came into the room, shoving before them the man in the picture. He stumbled and fell to his knees, a grunt of pain and fury escaping him.

Bellatrix followed, her hands entwined in the short, curly hair of a woman, one who bore a striking resemblance to the girl in the photos. She stared in uncomprehending terror at Draco as he shrank back against the piano. Bellatrix was laughing, a braying sound that set Draco’s teeth on edge. He wanted to scream at her to _shut the hell up_ , but his voice caught in his throat.

The two captives were herded to one of the divans and forced down onto it, the wands of three Death Eaters pointing menacingly at them. The man tried to rise, belligerence and fear twisting his handsome features. 

“ _Stupefy_!” Rodolphus Lestrange cried out and the man was flung back onto the divan, his face slack with surprise and pain. His wife, _her_ mother, clung to him, sobbing softly.

When _she_ walked in the room, it was with an eerie calm that sent a shiver of premonition along Draco’s spine. He’d hated her, hated what she was, what she represented, but seeing her this way, curly hair in pigtails and dressed in flannel pajamas covered with cartoon penguins, slammed home the fact that she was little more than a child. He looked down at the photo closest to his clenched fist. 

Hermione Granger smiled up at him, no more than six or seven years of age, guilty of nothing but the sin of her blood.

Lucius had one hand wrapped around her upper arm and he forced her down on her knees, but she still kept her chin tilted high, only the tears beginning to gather at the corners of her eyes any indication of her fear. “Well, well, Miss Granger. Your time has come at last,” Lucius said, his hand now resting on her shoulder, gloved fingertips digging into the hollow below her collarbone. 

“Then take me and leave them alone. They’ve done nothing wrong,” she said coldly and Draco couldn’t help but wonder at her composure. Her parents both cried out and would’ve gone to her had they the chance. Lucius laughed softly.

“Oh, they’ve certainly done wrong, Miss Granger. They birthed an abomination, another mudblood whore,” he hissed in her ear.

“You bastard!” Her father lunged off the divan, his eyes flashing in rage, but a trio of Cruciatus curses hit him and he fell to the floor, twitching and howling. Draco watched as the Death Eaters flung curse after curse at the man, until his voice broke and only the screams of his wife answered them.

“Enough.” They left off at Lucius’s command and Hermione’s mother crouched beside her weeping husband, pulling him into her arms. Their daughter watched them with what Draco first assumed was indifference. But, on closer look, he could see the anguish in her dark eyes, the coiled tension in her body, the faint trembling of her lips.

Lucius walked around to face Hermione. Reaching up, he pulled off his robes and removed the ivory mask. He looked terrible and alien all at once, the room seemingly smaller for his presence. He touched the tip of his wand to his lips, a mocking smile on them.

“So, Miss Granger, what games shall we play?”

She looked up at him, fatal resignation written across her pale features. She smiled and Draco felt tears spring, unbidden, to his eyes.

“Fuck you.”

*****

The blood hadn’t yet dried on Draco’s robes when he knelt before Voldemort and accepted the dark wizard's mark on his left forearm. To Lucius's obvious pride, Draco didn’t cry out nor did he flinch away. The only evidence of the great pain of the branding was a narrowing of his eyes, an infinitesimal tightening around his mouth. 

After the Dark Lord raised Draco to his feet, giving his praise and pleasure for the destruction of yet another enemy, the Death Eaters set up a rousing cheer. Bottles of firewhiskey appeared and they reveled in the aftermath of their night’s brutal work.

Draco covered the livid mark with one hand, the heat of it scorching still, and walked to the window of Voldemort’s chambers, looking out over the sleeping village of Little Hangleton. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cold glass, wishing away the visions and screams still echoing in his head.

“I’m proud of you, Draco. You’ve surpassed all of my dreams for you,” Lucius spoke from behind him.

_Bellatrix Lestrange had eviscerated Hermione’s mother, her laughter blending with the tortured woman’s shrieks until it was a hellish cacophony of sound that had Draco wishing he could cover his ears to drown them out._

_But he knew that, after this night, he’d hear her screams until the end of his days._

“Thank you, Father. I’m gratified that I’ve pleased you this night,” Draco said quietly, unable to look at his father and see the pride shining there.

“Oh, you have. You’ll go far, Draco, the Dark Lord will see to that.”

_Her father had died in a pool of his own waste, terror and agony loosening his bowels until his pajamas were stained and stinking. Walden MacNair methodically broke every bone in his body, snapping them with precise motions of his wand, bending his arms and legs and spine until the cracking bones reminded Draco of the breaking of walnut shells._

Bellatrix drew Draco away from the window, too intoxicated on drink and the thrill of the kill to pay any mind to the rigid set of his jaw or the clamminess of his lips as she raised on her toes to kiss him. Her tongue slithered into his mouth, even as her husband groped and pulled at her from behind, whispering encouragement in her ear, goading her into defiling an already defiled boy.

_Dolohov had her first, still eager for his pound of Hermione’s flesh after having been cheated of her death in the Department of Mysteries battle. He’d flung her onto the gutted remains of her mother’s corpse, shredding the clothing from her body and using the dead woman's congealing blood to slick his cock. Hermione’s first screams came as he slammed inside her over and over and over again, the cheers and whistles of the surrounding Death Eaters spurring him on._

_After he’d spilled himself in her, they’d all taken their turn. Even Bellatrix, who buried her hand so deep inside the limp girl’s body that Hermione’s whimpers of pain had become the shrill screams of a mortally-wounded animal._

_When Draco was shoved between her bloodied and scored thighs, fumbling with his flaccid penis, he was thankful that she was already unconscious._

The revel grew even wilder until Draco’s head pounded and his eyes blurred with the pain of it. He wanted his bed, he wanted to scrub the filth from his body, the memory of his aunt’s tongue lapping up the dried blood still coating his cock. He wanted the comfort of his mother’s arms and he wanted to forget Hermione Granger’s lifeless eyes staring accusingly into his own.

Draco stumbled into the garden and emptied his dinner onto the flagstone walk. He let the tears spill then, hot and scalding on his cheeks. Something vital was ripping out of him, tearing out of his soul and he sobbed aloud for its loss. He cried until he felt dessicated and void. Sitting back on his heels, he drew the back of his hand across his mouth. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east and he remembered dimly that it was Christmas Day.

Church bells tolled in the distance, calling for the devout to celebrate the birth of their Saviour and for a moment, Draco envied their innocence, their naive assumption that someone died for their sins. Someone had died _because_ of Draco’s sin and the knowledge of it clawed madly inside his gut like a feral animal. 

“Draco?”

“Yes, Father?”

Lucius didn’t answer for several long moments and Draco wondered if perhaps he’d gone back inside. Finally, the elder Malfoy sighed. “Your mother will be expecting us for brunch and I suppose you’ll be wanting a nap beforehand.”

 _Death, Father_ , Draco thought, _death is all that will erase this night from my mind._

_The verdant glow of the Dark Mark hovered in the night sky above Hermione Granger’s home, weaving sinuously on the wind currents. Draco looked over his shoulder at the skull and serpent symbol of Voldemort’s madness, before reaching for the second portkey, knowing he’d carry the taint of it in his soul for the rest of his life._

“Yes, Father.” He rose stiffly, wrinkling his nose at the stench of blood and viscera that rose from his clothing, from his very skin. He followed Lucius back into the house, looking only once over his shoulder at the pinkening glow of the rising sun.

~fin~


End file.
